“He was to tiptoe up to one of the guest rooms and go to sleep. I was to fix my alarm clock so I could look in on Dad every hour and a half. If he was sleeping I wouldn’t call the others. If he became restless I’d call Edison and let him keep a steady watch for two hours, then I’d watch for two hours.
“We agreed Hattie needed all the sleep she could get. She was right on the ragged edge. We weren’t going to call her unless we had to. We got her to agree to take a sleeping pill.”
“What happened?” Mason asked. “Go ahead.”
“Hattie went to bed. The house quieted down. Everything was perfectly quiet. I looked in on Dad. He seemed to be asleep. I checked to see that the house was locked up, before heading for bed. Then I heard a car being started in the garage. Whoever was driving it was driving very carefully so that it wouldn’t disturb anyone. The car came out with the lights off.”
“What did you do?”
“I ran to the window. I saw Dad in the car.”
“You’re sure?”
“Just as sure as I can be, but I verified it.”
“How?”
“I ran into his room. He wasn’t in the bed. The covers had been thrown back.”
“So what did you do?”
“I followed. I dashed out to where I’d left my car parked at the curb, jumped in and followed the car ahead.”
“Why didn’t you stop him?”
“I don’t know why I didn’t, Mr. Mason, but I wanted to find out what it was he had in mind, and—well, I guess I was terribly curious. I knew that Dad wouldn’t have gone out except on some matter of the greatest emergency, something that was life and death, and I wanted to find out what it was and where he was going.”
“Where did he go?”
“I’ve already told you. He went directly to that apartment house.”
“What did you do?”
“I waited, thinking that he’d come out within a few minutes. After about half an hour or so, when he didn’t come out, I became very worried and entered the apartment house.”
“Then what?”
“You know it’s one of those apartment houses where the outer door is always open. There’s no one on duty on the inside. You go right up to the apartments without being announced.”
“Go on,” Mason said.
“The outer door is supposed to be kept latched, but all you have to do is push against it hard and it opens.”
“I know,” Mason said. “Tell me what you did.”
“I went in and started for the elevator. I saw that it was on the floor where Brogan had his apartment. I felt certain Dad was up there. I was just about to press the button for the elevator when I heard the elevator coming down.”
“What did you do?”
“I ran for the stairs and ran part way up the first flight of stairs.”
“What happened?”
“I heard someone get out of the elevator. I realized, of course, that it probably was Dad. I ran back down the stairs and was able to glimpse the figure just as it went out. The figure was silhouetted against the door. It wasn’t Dad, at least I didn’t think it was at the time. I thought it was a woman.”
“Go on.”
“So I took the elevator back up, walked down the corridor and stood fairly near the door of Brogan’s apartment, listening. I couldn’t hear any voices. I went back to the end of the corridor and waited. When I’d been waiting for about half an hour or so I again walked back down to the apartment. I was good and worried then. This time I went closer and saw there was a note on the door. I looked at the envelope and saw it was addressed to you. I pulled it off, read the note, realized the apartment was unlocked. I put the note back on the door, trying to push the thumb tack into the same hole that it had occupied, but the light wasn’t good and I’m not certain I did it.”
“Go on.”
“I tried the door of the apartment. It was unlocked. I just wanted to find out if Dad was in there. I opened the door and stepped in.”
“Go on,” Mason said.
“A light was on in the living room. There was no one in there.”
“What did you do?”
“I went through the apartment, switching on lights, looking for Dad. He wasn’t there.”
“Where was J. J. Fritch?”
“At the time, I don’t know.”
“He wasn’t there then?”
“Of course he was, but I didn’t know it. His body must have been in the liquor closet, Mr. Mason.”
“You didn’t open that door?”
“Not then, no.”
“So what did you do?”
“At first I felt Dad must be in J.J.’s apartment across the hall. I tried that door. It was locked. I listened. There was no sound, no voices, no noise of any sort.
“I started to ring, then started to wonder if my eyes could have deceived me and if it had really been Dad who had gone out of the door of that apartment house.
“So I went back down to the street and sure enough our car was gone. So then I hurried back home. Dad was in bed, sound asleep, so I went up to bed and went to sleep myself, setting my alarm so I could look in on Dad every hour and a half until seven-thirty.
“Then I dressed, jumped in my car, drove to a restaurant, had breakfast and went to George Brogan’s apartment for my appointment with you. Only, knowing that I’d probably find the apartment unlocked, I went about twenty minutes early.”
“Then you didn’t see anyone after you got back to the house?”
“No. Edison had gone to bed. Jarrett got in on a plane at four o’clock this morning, rented one of those cars you drive yourself so he’d have his own transportation, and let himself in and went to bed.”
“You haven’t said anything to anyone else about this?”
“Not so far, but I’m going to.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s the only fair thing to do, Mr. Mason. If Fritch was killed when the police say he was, that was at the time Dad was up in that apartment house.
“Please understand me, Mr. Mason, as long as Dad was alive I did everything I could to protect him, even going to the extent of taking that murder weapon out of the body. Think of the spot I’d have been in if that horrid Sergeant Holcomb had caught me with that ice pick.”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Mason said.
“Well, I cheerfully took all that risk to protect Dad, but now that he’s gone we’d be terribly foolish to run risks trying to conceal the facts. Why, they might even try to pin the murder on one of us!”
Mason frowned deeply as he gave the problem his full attention.
“Don’t you see, Mr. Mason,” she went on, “Dad is dead. He can’t be punished. I am willing to assume that he acted in self-defense, but I am not willing to try to protect his memory by concealing essential facts.”
“You haven’t told Sergeant Holcomb anything about this?”
“Not yet. Of course, at first I didn’t have any proof. Later on I found that tape recording under Dad’s pillow.”
“And what did you do with it?”
“I thought I’d conceal it some place where no one would look until I could ask you about it. I was in something of a panic.”
“Go ahead,” Mason said.
“I knew that Dr. Flasher had given Hattie a hypo, told her to undress and get into bed. I slipped into her room pretending I wanted to make sure she was all right. She was undressing. I hid the tape recording in the top dresser drawer where she keeps her handkerchiefs. I felt that no one would look in there because they wouldn’t want to disturb Hattie.”
“Then what?”
“Well, Hattie was still nervous even after the hypo. Dr. Flasher thought it would be a good thing for Edison to go in and sit by the bed and talk with her. He said to talk quietly, in a low, even voice, talking about things that weren’t connected with Dad’s death, using long sentences and using a monotone as much as possible. He thought that would help her go to sleep.
“You know the rest.”
Mason said, “Brogan had a tape recording made of our conversation in front of the door of his apartment this morning. He’s turned that over to the police. They know that you discovered the body. They know that I announced I was going into Fritch’s apartment to see if I could find that spool of tape recording.”
Sylvia Atwood thought that over for a few minutes. Abruptly she got to her feet. “That settles it,” she said. “I’ve made up my mind what I’m going to do.”
“Now wait a minute,” Mason said. “You haven’t made up your mind to anything. If you want me to represent you, you’re going to have to follow my advice.”
“But you’re not representing me.”
“You retained me.”
“That was to represent the family, not me. I’m not in any trouble, not now—particularly not after what I’m going to do.”
“You may think you’re not in any trouble,” Mason said, “and you may be kidding yourself.”
“But I’m not. That’s ridiculous. Personally, Mr. Mason, I think you’re being altogether too conservative about this thing, and I think you’ve held your own counsel entirely too long. I think you should have passed the information along to the police.”
“What’s happened to Hattie?” Mason asked.
“She’s still asleep. She’ll probably be asleep until midnight or later. Dr. Flasher was particularly anxious that she get a good sleep. She’s lost a lot of rest lately and she’s terribly nervous.”
“Now wait a minute,” Mason said. “Let’s get a few things straight. I want to know the real truth about that body. What happened when you found it?”
“I told you the truth.”
“Tell it again, then.”
“I was searching. I wondered if Dad had talked to J.J. in there or in J.J.‘s apartment. I felt certain you and Miss Street would arrive before Brogan. And since Brogan had no way of knowing that I would know the apartment was unlocked, he wouldn’t have expected me to get there much before nine.
“So I got up there about twenty minutes to nine and I started looking around. Well, frankly, I was searching. That’s why I kept my gloves on so I wouldn’t leave fingerprints.
“I opened the door of the liquor closet. That is, I turned the knob. As soon as I turned it and the latch clicked the door flew open. The body must have been pressing against the door from the inside.
“It was terrible, horrible. It—”
“Never mind all that. Was the body stiff? Had rigor mortis set in?”
“I—I can’t be sure. I think the arms were held up very rigid—bent at the elbows, but I think the legs sprawled. There was a sort of bruise on the back, just above the undershirt. Mr. Mason, no one must ever know about that ice pick being in my possession.”
“Where is it now?”
“I’m going to get it. Won’t it be better if you don’t know some of these things? I’ll do what is necessary.”
“Now just a moment. Where are you going now?” Mason asked, as Sylvia Atwood picked up her purse and got to her feet.
She started to say something, then changed her mind, looked at him with her eyes wide and innocent.
“Why, home, of course,” she said. “That’s my place, to be with Hattie.”
She hurried to the door.
“Wait a minute,” Mason said.
“There isn’t time,” she retorted, and jerked the door open.
Chapter 11
Paul Drake phoned Mason at about three o’clock.
“Hear the latest, Perry?”
“What?”
“From a quote, undisclosed but authentic source, unquote, the police have been advised that Ned Bain got up from his sick bed last night, kept a midnight appointment with J. J. Fritch; presumably murdered him in order to obtain possession of a master tape recording, which Fritch was using in an attempt to blackmail Bain into paying a large sum of money.”
“That’s been announced to the press?”
“That’s right. It just came over the radio in a newscast.”
“Who gave them the information?” Mason asked.
“A quote, undisclosed source, unquote. Was that you?”
“No.”
“It would be a slick move, making a dead man a murderer. It would get the live ones out from under.”
“I didn’t do it,” Mason said. “Anything else now, Paul?”
“The police recovered the tape recording in question through quote, vigorous, intelligent work, unquote. They ran down a series of clues, decided that the tape recording was in the possession of quote, a prominent downtown lawyer, unquote.
“Police secured a search warrant and entered the office of this lawyer. They found him and his attractive secretary in the lawyer’s private office listening to the very tape recording that has become such a valuable piece of evidence in the case.”
“The lawyer wasn’t named?” Mason asked.
“Wasn’t named,” Drake said, “but the newscaster announced that his initials were P. M.”
“That makes it nice,” Mason said. “Thanks for calling.”
Mason hung up the telephone, said to Della Street, “Well, the beans are spilled all over the stove. Now we’ll have to see what happens.”
“She told the police?” Della Street asked.
“The police announced that an undisclosed source of information gave them the tip-off.”
“They’re investigating?”
Mason nodded.
“Sylvia Atwood might at least have done us the courtesy of telling us what she was going to do,” Della Street said.
“Sylvia Atwood,” Mason observed, getting up from behind the desk and starting to pace the floor, “is adopting the position that she knows more than her attorney.”
“Not her attorney,” Della Street corrected. “The family attorney.”
Mason grinned. “That’s right.”
He continued pacing the floor.
“This,” Della Street said, “will get you off the spot, won’t it, Chief?”
“It might if the police believe her.”
“Do you think they’ll believe her?”
“I would say,” Mason said, “that there was only about one chance in ten. They’ll think that she’s concocting a story in order to get herself out of a jam and get me out of a jam. The public will resent the fact that she was altogether too eager to pin a murder on her dead father before the body was even cold.
“That’s going to have the effect of making for very poor public relations, Della.”
“I’ll say it is,” Della Street blazed, “and when they photograph her with those cold eyes of hers, and when it seems she tried to make her dead father the fall guy just as soon as she knew he’d passed away—Gosh, Chief, when you stop to think of it that way it really ties together, doesn’t it?”
Mason nodded moodily.
“Of course,” Della Street said, “she had the tape recording and—”
“You mean I had it.”
“Well, she gave it to you.”
Mason said, “That’s something I’m afraid we can’t admit, Della.”
“Why not?”
“She’s our client.”
“But you can at least tell where you got it.”
“I can’t. Of course, we have Edison Doyle. Presumably he’ll tell the police where he found it. Police, however, have publicly adopted the position that shrewd detective work enabled them to find the tape recording after I had purloined it from Fritch’s apartment.
“If they had to back up on that and if it turned out the tape recording had been given me by someone who had found it, their faces would be red.
“Sergeant Holcomb doesn’t like to have his face become red. Tragg will find the facts and face them. Holcomb will move heaven and earth to keep everyone believing I broke into that apartment and purloined that tape.”
“And where is that going to leave you?” she asked.
He grinned. “Right behind the eight
ball, as usual, but we have to protect our clients, Della, regardless of any other consideration.”
“Do you think Brogan really did have the tape recording of what took place in front of his apartment?”
“Sure,” Mason said. “Tragg couldn’t have repeated that conversation as accurately as he did unless they did have such a tape recording.”
The buzzer of the telephone on Della Street’s desk sounded.
Mason said, “Tell Gertie I can’t see any clients today. Tell her to filter out everything except the important calls. Tell her I’m tied up on an emergency matter of the greatest importance.”
Della Street nodded, picked up the telephone, said, “Gertie, Mr. Mason i.… What.… Who.… Just a minute.”
She turned to Mason.
“Jarrett Bain’s out there. He says he simply has to see you, and he seems to be all worked up.”
“Is he alone?”
“He’s alone.”
“I’ll see him,” Mason said. “Go out and bring him in, Della.”
She nodded, hurried through the door to the outer office.
Jarrett Bain, following Della, came striding into Mason’s office, his manner radiating indignation.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Bain,” Mason said. “Sit down. Tell me what’s on your mind.”
Bain didn’t sit down, but stood towering over Mason’s desk, looking down at the lawyer with blazing, angry eyes.
“What’s all this about trying to blame the murder of J. J. Fritch on Dad?”
“I don’t know,” Mason said. “I received a telephone call just a moment ago from the Drake Detective Agency telling me that the police had announced that a quote, undisclosed but authentic source, unquote, had given them a tip-off.”
“Wasn’t that undisclosed source you?” Bain asked.
Mason shook his head.
Bain glowered at him for a moment, then walked over and sat down in the client’s chair as though some of the anger and much of the strength had eased out of him.
“I should have known it,” he said, disgustedly.
“Known what?” Mason asked.
“Sylvia,” Jarrett said, and there was a world of contempt in his voice.
“You think she was the one who told the police?”
The Case of the Green-Eyed Sister Page 13
